


Guardian

by withthecherrytrees



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Imya is a BAMF, Magic, Mahal meddles too much, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18473359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthecherrytrees/pseuds/withthecherrytrees
Summary: Her voice, calm and clear as a bell, rose up through shadows and lingering smoke to the company, who had gathered on the rampart to witness this curious spectacle. "My name is Imya, my lord King. I come from a place I cannot name, and Aüle sends me to you. I ask to enter your Halls so I may tell you why He sends me."





	1. Prologue

**Erebor, late evening.**

Thorin Oakenshield, newly minted King Under the Mountain, was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

Not only was war brewing on his doorstep with the Bowman and the Elvenking (Mahal smite him), his Burglar had betrayed him, and the Wizard was as insufferable and maddeningly riddle-like as usual.

Apparently this was not enough. Apparently, it was also necessary for this slip of a girl, this veiled Woman, to come striding up to the gates of Erebor in the blackest part of the night and demand an audience with him.

Dwalin had laughed in her face when he stood next to Thorin on the rampart, looking down into the moonlit night at this Woman, who stood next to her horse (a horse so black it threatened to dissolve into the shadows), this Woman who called to a King she did not know and demanded entry to a besieged and newly conquered Kingdom.

No, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain was not pleased at all.

“And who are you,” he called to her from high above, “that you should demand an audience with the King Under the Mountain?”

Her voice, calm and clear as a bell, rose up through shadows and lingering smoke to the company, who had gathered on the rampart to witness this curious spectacle. “My name is Imya, my lord King. I come from a place I cannot name, and Aüle sends me to you. I ask to enter your Halls so I may tell you why He sends me.”

Silence reigned on the rampart. None of the dwarves could have heard right.

Balin looked at him incredulously. “Thorin, laddie, did she say Aüle? As in Mahal? That he sent her?” The old Dwarf’s eyes grew round with disbelief.

 _Durin’s beard, this quest will be the death of me_. Thorin might be called naive to have thought that the quest for Erebor would not contain so many meddling and interfering Men.

“She lies,” he murmured to Balin. In this he was certain. Their Maker would not concern himself with the likes of a Woman.

“Liar. Impossible,” he called to the Woman, and repeated his thoughts concerning the Maker and His certain indifference towards the likes of her. “Either you are a Thief, come to steal from the riches you know are stored in the Halls of Erebor, and which rightly belong to me, or you are a spy, sent by the Pale Orc and the Shadows in the East. If the first, you are no better than the rallying thieves, those pitiful excuses for Elves and Men who have laid siege to my doorstep. If the second, I should cleave your head from your shoulders and the world would be better for it.”

His company nodded their assent behind him, Dwalin handling his battle-axes in a menacing manner.

The veiled Woman did not seem cowed. It seemed she had expected their reaction. She said, “I am neither a Liar, nor a Thief, nor a Spy. I have not come to deceive, to steal, or sabotage. The opposite, in fact. Aüle bid me help you. I am His Servant, and He has sent me to Erebor in the service of Thorin Oakenshield, in the Battle To Come. Be grateful, Thorin Oakenshield, for your Maker has sent you a Guardian.”

Her words had taken on a prophetic, revelatory tone, her voice surging with power. It unsettled Thorin. In return, his next words grew more savage, and his hands gripped the rampart walls. “Lies! Leave, Woman, before you end like the Dragon, a corpse on the doorstep of the Mountain. You have no place in my Kingdom, and you will not be granted entry. Your story is a lie, a less believable tale I have not heard in a long time.”

He motioned to his company to return inside, but a sudden shift of the light drew his eye. The moon seemed to brighten, only for a moment, before night fell darker than before. Thorin glanced behind him as he walked back inside the Mountain, but the Woman was nowhere to be seen. She had faded into the shadows with her horse.


	2. A Task Completed

_Through these fields of destruction_

_Baptisms of fire_

_I’ve witnessed your suffering_

_As the battle reached higher_

 

“Oh Ascha,” Imya murmured, the soft evening breeze nearly carrying the whispered words away. “These Dwarves are a stubborn race indeed.” She stroked the mane of the great stallion, the horse of shadow and darkness who was her constant companion. “I can hear it on their leader’s voice, they will not listen or heed my words. It is as Aüle said: If I cannot keep them from war, I must fight in the Battle and in that way I will protect Durin’s Sons.”

 

Imya paused in her movements, listening for the voice of Stone, that peculiar shifting of rocks and grumbling of earth that Aüle’s voice was borne on. But no reassurance or dissuasion came from below her stallion’s hooves, and so Imya nodded, resolved on her course. 

 

She and her horse were Shadow made manifest, and they drifted unseen and unheard through the camps of Men and Elves that littered the doorstep of the Lonely Mountain. And so they waited, as the hours and days passed and the Battle To Come drew ever nearer. Imya had felt the Gold Sickness clouding Thorin Oakenshield’s mind, and knew he would not avoid war. So she prepared, hiding in shadowed places and darkened corners (it was simple enough, for if Imya did not wish to be seen, no being in Middle Earth could defy her), to gather knowledge of the Armies so she would know where to find the Durin’s Sons on the field of battle. 

 

Imya she grew nervous, though, that this could be her task: to slaughter Elves and Men in protection of Dwarves, for Elves and Men were of the Free Races too, and that did not sit well in her stomach. But this was her task, as granted by Aüle, in exchange for a life of freedom and excitement. She deepened her resolve. 

 

So it was that when the first Armies stopped their clash at the words of the Grey Wizard (who, incidentally, had seemed suspiciously aware of Imya’s presence in the little places she had hidden these past days), and the news came of Goblins and Orcs descending on the Mountain, that Imya was relieved. She would use her talents for ridding the world of true evil, not soldiers on the wrong side of a Valar’s Will. 

 

And then, she relished in the looks of astonishment and wonder she and her immense stallion of Night and Shadow received when they burst into the fray. He was a fearsome thing to behold: hooves flying, cracking skulls and dropping foes, his battle cry a bugle splitting the air. And Imya was his perfect match in every way: light as a feather upon his bare back, her curved sword slicing those who dared come close. The soldiers of Elves and Men drew back in surprise as the sight of her but calmed when they realized she was an unexpected ally in this Battle of Five Armies, as it was to be called. 

 

Despite all of her and Ascha’s progress, fear threaded its way through her belly when she found neither hide nor hair of the Three in her charge. The Lion, the Hunter, and the Oak, Aüle had called them. Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin. She whispered their names as she guided Ascha across the battle field

 

_There._ A flash of gold, a glint of silver, and the unmistakeable brute: the Pale Orc. She saw the four atop the Raven Hill. 

 

“Fly, Ascha,” she whispered, and fly her stallion did. The two leapt over Friend and Foe alike, leaving a few convenient bodies in their wake. 

 

_Hurry hurry hurry they stand alone and the Lion is injured already._

 

Fear took hold of Imya, deeper and colder than before. She must not fail.

 

At last, the Raven Hill. Asha’s hooves skittered on the ice, but she knew his gait was true. Turning quickly, she loosed arrows two Orcs waiting to strike the Princes. 

 

_The Lion and the Hunter. Safe._

 

_Only the Oak remains to be saved._

 

She caught sight of him then, Thorin Oakenshield, a ways away. His steel glinted bloodily against the Pale Orc’s imposing stature. Much blood had been shed, Imya saw, much of it Dwarf. His stance wavered imperceptibly. She could see that he would fall. 

 

_Hurry hurry hurry._

 

She heard the shouts of Fíli and Kíli behind her, but they were Dwarves and on foot and weary, and anyway, they were no match for Ascha’s astounding speed. No one was. Imya had yet to meet a being, alive or dead, who was faster than Ascha. 

 

Imya reached Thorin Oakenshield in time, then, to knock aside the blow meant for him. Ascha wheeled, and Horse and Rider were behind the Pale Orc, and she drew her sword across the backs of his legs so that he forcibly knelt. The same motion took his head cleanly off. It was quick and clean, and thus Imya knew her hand was guided by Aüle. 

 

Imya didn’t relish begrudging Thorin Oakenshield his kill, but she had seen how the Dwarf King wavered where he stood, his weariness and injuries making him slow to react. Even now he stood, despite the threat being gone. She reckoned he might not quite believe that his longtime foe was well and truly dead. But dead the Pale Orc was, and the Armies of Goblins and Orcs were scattering, urges along by the Eagles and the Bear. 

 

She drew Ascha to a walk, his flanks heaving, to let the stallion cool. Imya addressed the Dwarf King who was staring at her with an inscrutable expression. “Well met, Thorin Oakenshield. Aüle sent me to protect you and protect you I have. Your Sister Sons are safe as well.”

 

The Dwarf King said nothing for a long moment, just followed the motion of the stallion and his rider. It seemed the words refused to pass his lips. 

 

“Who are you?” finally came. 

 

Inwardly, Imya sighed. “I had introduced myself already, but you were quite ill with Sickness at the time, so I will excuse your inattention. I am Imya. This is Ascha. Aüle bid me help you, to protect you and your Heirs in this Battle. I am His Servant, and I have done my Duty.” 

 

Remembering his disbelief on the ramparts in the night, she tugged at her sleeve and removed the vanbrace from her forearm. The Hammer Sigil shone bright and true from her skin. Face impassive, she held out her arm for the King to see. His face slackened, and Imya could tell that the truth of the Sigil rang in his heart, as any work of Aüle would ring true in the heart of a Dwarf. 

 

The King Under the Mountain nodded, his belief certain. “I thank you.” 

 

“Thank Aüle, not me.” 

 

He scowled. “I _am_ grateful to the Maker.”

 

“Good,” Imya said. “For He loves you dearly and would hate for His aid to go unappreciated.”

 

By this point the Lion and the Wolf had reached their Uncle and King, and were studying her curiously. She met their eyes. 

 

The King looked Imya straight in the eyes (a difficult thing to do, many said, for her eyes were filled with shadows). “And you Guardian? In what way shall your aid go appreciated? A share of the riches in Erebor, I imagine.” His tone had taken on a hard sound, but not a jealous one. No, it was not Gold Sickness, but a lifetime others demanding _things and rewards_ off him that caused his suspicion. Imya blamed him not for it, but frowned nonetheless. 

 

“No, Thorin Oakenshield, you are in no debt to me and I have nothing I would ask of you. My service to Aüle comes with its own rewards. Worry not, I will not demand any share of your treasure. It is yours to keep.”

 

It was the Dwarf King’s turn to frown. “But I am in debt. You saved my life, and you saved Fíli’s, and Kíli’s. You will have something. You are always welcome here at the court of Erebor, and you will always have friends Under the Mountain. More will follow, when I am rested and stock is taken of the fallen and the wounded. In the meantime, you may stay here as long as you wish.” 

 

Imya shook her head. “A promised welcome and a place to rest my head is quite enough for me, I assure you, for when I am not a Guardian, I am a Wanderer. A welcoming hearth is worth more to me than all the gold in Middle Earth.” She smiled her thanks, and went on. “But I cannot stay. I am going now. I have many places to see and to visit. I will see you again, though, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain.”

 

With that, Imya turned away from the gaping Dwarves, left them to their healing and resting, to their rebuilding and their prospering, and she sent Ascha swiftly towards the Great Forest, her task completed, and her reward for her service beckoning her. A great ride awaited, and a great many sights and adventures along the way. 

 

The earth and the Stone rumbled their thanks and good luck to her as Horse and Rider passed above. She grinned, anticipating the road ahead. 

 

And yet, as Imya watched the survivors, and the fallen, and the wounded, and as she observed the Mountain standing strong, watching over Her Dwarves, Imya was struck by a sudden fascination with this long lost Kingdom, and its stubborn, brave inhabitants. 

 

“I think we will not be gone long from here, Ascha,” Imya said. “I should like to know more of these Dwarves.”

 

The great stallion merely tossed his shadow mane in response, and snorted. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The lines at the start are from the anti-war song 'Brothers in Arms', by Dire Straits


	3. Return to the Mountain

_See, they return; ah, see the tentative_

_Movements, and the slow feet,_

_The trouble in the pace and the uncertain_

_Wavering!_

 

Ascha’s steps were tentative. This had not been done before. This— this returning. The pair of them had not yet been in the same place twice. When Aüle granted them their form and freedom, Ascha and Imya had vowed to ride swiftly and far to see the hidden corners of Middle Earth. They hadn’t yet turned back. 

 

And now, Imya was laying eyes again upon the Mountain, the place where she had completed her last Task for Aüle, where she had saved the Lion, the Hunter, and the Oak from doom. 

 

Thorin Oakenshield had said she would always be welcome, Imya reassured herself. Dwarves weren’t ones to make empty promises. Yet, the strangeness of the return filled her body, and Asha grew anxious below her. 

 

Imya shushed the great stallion, stroking a hand through his shadow mane. 

 

The pair had passed by the city of Dale, which was still slowly rebuilding. They had seen at a distance the beginnings of a bustling city, the merchants were returning, the ruins and rubble were being moulded back into their former glory. The people seemed tired, weary, but full of hope. It filled Imya’s heart to see it so. 

 

Yet they hadn’t entered the city. Another time, another day, perhaps. But Imya and Ascha were off-kiltered enough by their return to a place of battle, a place of a mission, to consider entering a crowd, and poking their noses where they certainly hadn’t been invited back. 

 

Better to forge on straight to Erebor. 

 

Imya had yet to come up with a plausible reason for her return. No matter, she had about a league left, before she’d near the questions of the guards of Erebor. 

 

She could not explain it herself, but since the Battle of the Five Armies, when she and her horse of shadow had vaulted over friend and foe alike with Aüle’s strength giving them wings, some tug, some pull had not left her being. Some sense of incompleteness, that some danger, some threat had not yet passed the Durins by. 

 

Imya had sent for Aüle’s guidance, had waited, listened, for the Stone to confirm, to deny, for anything. It seemed Aüle did not know more than she, for He had not deemed her prayers worthy of a reply. A prideful one, was He. 

 

But wrong her instincts never were, and so she and Asha had flitted back along the banks of the Long Lake with the Lonely Mountain growing ever larger on the horizon. 

 

She fell in soon with Dwarrow carts and merchants, ponies and caravans, traders and wanderers, all of whom hoped to partake in the prosperity of the reclaimed Kingdom. 

 

Ascha received more than a few suspicious glares, as his massive hooves and height far outshone any of the rather stodgy looking ponies of the Dwarrow. Not to mention the looks the Dwarrow then gave Ascha’s rider, as if taking it as a personal insult that she should deign to sit so highly upon her stallion, when she was barely taller than they. 

 

But Imya had chosen to arrive in day, unwilling to mask her arrival in the cover of darkness and shadow as she had last time. That was a time of War, this of Peace. She would conduct herself appropriately. 

 

At last they neared the gates. The stone Dwarves stood guarding the Mountain, Aüle’s, no _Mahal’s_ touch pervading every inch of their rock. Every Dwarrow slowed, in awe, in thanks, in honor of their forefathers. 

 

“Halt, Stranger!” 

 

_Ah, yes._

 

Time to explain herself. 

 

The guards stepped up to Ascha, their glowers not lacking in vigor, despite only reaching Ascha’s flanks. Their heavy beards, the weapons dripping off them, and the matching scowls they wore belied the strength that Erebor had ripped back from Smaug. 

 

“Good morning”, Imya said, as politely as anything. It was an odd feeling, to present herself to someone during a time of peace, with no clear nor imminent danger looming. The lack of urgency unbalanced her. 

 

Her greeting went unrequited. “Who are you? Dismount and identify yourself.” 

 

She obeyed. In one smooth motion, she slipped like black water from Ascha’s back, a hand on his flanks to steady him, to steady her. 

 

She dropped her hood. 

 

“My name is Imya. This is Ascha.” 

 

Their faces did not change. They might even have glowered with more effort. 

 

For some reason, Imya was disappointed. She had not realized she’d hoped for Oakenshield to spread word of her deeds, at the very least to his guards. For the first time, she began to doubt the sincerity of his promise. _You are always welcome here at the court of Erebor_. Surely a welcome guest should not be met with such suspicion. 

 

Ascha’s warm breath huffed over her side as he nudged her, as if to say _Peace. They mean no insult. Dwarrow are suspicious folk._

 

She tried again. “I am Imya, of the Battle of the Five Armies. Your King would have me be welcomed to the Mountain.” 

 

Perhaps she had grown a little imperious in her time as the Hand of Aüle. Though a Wanderer far more often than a Guardian, she did not enjoy being turned away. 

 

The Dwarf guards regarded her, regarded Ascha, and each other. They stepped away for a moment, conferring. Imya caught hushed whispering, a snippet that sounded like “ _Izrî Balin!”_. 

 

“Come with us,” the taller of the two said. 

 

Horse and Rider did go with them. Now escorted by armed officials of the Mountain, the stream of travelers parted around the group as fluidly as sand through an hourglass. 

 

They passed through the gates, and Imya felt the Sigil Thrum. It Thrummed with Aüle’s power, His presence, His Maker’s hands that had forged this Kingdom, and she felt the weight of His Sigil more deeply than ever before. 

 

If she had ever doubted that her Wanderer’s life was a dream of comfort in the long dark night, and that she might wake up again to desert air, she did not do so now. 

 

The walls of Stone soared up, higher than she had ever believed. The rugged stone from the exterior was transformed into smooth, midnight ink. The torches flickered, casting light and shadow up the Halls. The world seemed to never end. 

 

“Halt,” the first guard called, his arm thrown up, fist clenched, his elbow in a right angle of command. “The horse stays here.”

 

Imya had expected this. Ascha too. Separation was a trial, but necessary one. Imya stroked Ascha’s nose. “I must go. I will find you. Be safe,” she said, her voice a breath. 

 

She handed Ascha’s reigns to a waiting Dwarf, who remained stoic in the face of the looming Night stallion, and watched as Ascha followed him dutifully to the stables. She turned back to the waiting guards, and followed them into an ante-room down a little corridor. 

 

It seemed the Dwarves were unwilling to permit her further into the Mountain. Imya gritted herself. A Guardian of Aüle, within his own Halls, treated like a threat. 

 

_Peace, Imya_. _It will not do to be ungracious._

 

The larger guard remained with her, as the more swift-footed one sped off. For a time, neither occupant of the chamber said a word. 

 

At last, the door swung open to reveal a short, white-haired Dwarf with a keen gaze. He regarded Imya, not smiling, but not frowning. An assessing gaze, and her dark eyes returned it steadily. 

 

“Well met,” he said, and his voice was kind. “My name is Balin. How have you come to find yourself in Erebor this morning?” 

 

“My name is Imya, Master Balin. And we have met before.” 

 

“Aye, I remember,” he said, nodding. “You marched up to gates of Erebor in the middle of the night. Had us all in a right tizzy. And now you’re back. After three years?” 

 

Imya straightened, refusing to break the eye contact. “I was told I’d always be welcome in the Mountain.” 

 

“That so?” Balin asked.

 

_Peace, Imya_. 

 

“Yes, it is so.” 

 

Balin nodded thoughtfully. The guard next to him snorted derisively. Neither served to cool her growing fury. 

 

“And you told you that, may I ask?” 

 

Imya could not discern any sarcasm, so she replied, “Your King. Thorin Oakenshield. After I saved him and his Sister-Sons from certain death.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The opening lines are from the poem “The Return” by Ezra Pound. The theme of the poem is the return of ancient gods for those willing to see them. 
> 
> * The name Ascha (Asha) means “wish, desire, hope” in Sanskrit.
> 
> * “Izrî” is the singular imperative for “Ask” in Khuzdul. I would like to thank The Dwarrow Scholar for use of the Neo-Khuzdul Library.


	4. Meetings by the Hearth

_Merciful Lord, you are never weary_

_of speaking to my poor heart._

_Grant me grace that, if today I hear your voice,_

_my heart may not be hardened._

 

It all seemed to happen very quickly after that. Balin, whose eyes had momentarily widened, before his face resumed its usual inscrutable look, gave some sort of a signal, and the guard retreated from the room. 

 

“You are she, then,” he said to Imya. “The Woman from the Battle.” 

 

Imya gave a tight nod, the indignity of their unwelcome still smarting.

 

Balin shook his head. “Mahal, I hadn’t believed him.” He regarded her, his eyes keen and searching. They traveled over her, her face, her cloak, alighting on the weapons she had stashed in various places. Imya, used to Shadow and those quiet Dark places, had the rare and uncomfortable sensation of being truly _seen_. 

 

“May I ask, Lady, why you are back?” he said. 

 

_I do not know._

 

_I could not tell you if I wished._

 

_I sense a danger which I cannot name._

 

Her voice cool, Imya said, “I will discuss that with the King.” 

 

Balin seemed to consider this a moment, before nodding slightly. “Very well, I’ll be taking you to him, then,” he said. He stepped aside, and made a small, inviting gesture. 

 

Imya stepped forward, but as she neared the door, Balin reached and grabbed the handle, blocking her way. 

 

He said, “If you don’t mind, Lady, try not to draw attention to yourself when we walk through Erebor. It would make my job a lot easier if not many Dwarves saw you.”

 

Imya gave him her first, albeit small, smile. “Fear not, Master Balin. I am rarely noticed when I do not want to be.” 

 

He regarded Imya a moment, eyes a little narrower than kind, before he smiled and opened the door for her, motioning her along. 

 

Walking along, Balin’s unhurried pace and calm demeanor, and Imya’s ability to fade into the background indeed kept questioning eyes from falling upon them, and they soon reached an unassuming study on an upper level. It was not a King’s study, nor that of a simple worker, yet it was warm and inviting and had the distinct sensation of a place where good work is done and enjoyed. Imya liked it immediately. 

 

Balin shut the door behind her, and motioned for her to sit in one of the leather armchairs, by the fireplace. He stoked the coals a bit to revive them as she sat down, her back tense and her mind uneasy. 

 

_This is not the welcome I was promised._

 

She wondered if perhaps she had committed some offense against these Dwarves, a misstep too foreign to her for notice, but grave enough that her presence caused a danger. Whether the danger was to her, or to another, remained to be seen. 

 

“Tea?” Her thoughts were interrupted by Balin’s offer. 

 

“Yes, thank you,” she said. 

 

He poured a cup, and handed it to her, before opening the door very slightly. He motioned to someone, and spoke softly to them, before shutting the door and turning back to Imya. 

 

“Apologies, Lady, for the delay. The King will be coming soon. He appears to be rather occupied at the moment.” 

 

After a moment, Imya said, “Have I offended the Dwarves of Erebor in some way?” Imya had decided to ask this Dwarf directly. In her experience, a misstep was best cleared honestly and without pretense. 

 

“Of course not, Lady, whatever gave you that idea?” Balin said, glancing up sharply. 

 

“My presence displeases you. Or, it displeases others, whom you wish not to offend.”

 

Balin eyed her a moment, contemplating his words. He said, “Your presence… does not offend us, Lady. It does present some obstacles, however. But let’s wait until the King arrives. We’d do best to discuss it then.” 

 

They drank their tea in silence, until a knock rang at the door. Balin stood to open it, and in stepped Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain.

 

“Balin.” he said, his voice a deep gravel. “And you. Imya. The Guardian.” 

 

“Yes, my lord King,” Imya said, and nodded once. “You once offered me a welcome and a place to rest my head. I have returned, and would take you up on your offer. It seems, however, my presence is not so welcome as was promised.” 

 

As she spoke, the Dwarf King’s brows drew closer and closer together, the scowl on his face deepening. He spoke, “Forgive me, and forgive Erebor, for offending you so. Indeed, I am grateful to you for the service you have done, and all of Erebor should be as well.” 

 

Imya bowed her head, an acknowledgement of the forgiveness sought and given.

 

Thorin continued. “It is unfortunate, but the Dwarves of Erebor, beyond the Company whom you met, are not aware of your existence.”

 

Imya looked up sharply. “Is that so?” 

 

“Yes, it is.” The King’s discomfort began to seep through the walls of his scowl. He glanced at Balin, an almost imperceptible move. 

 

The older Dwarf spoke, then. “Lady, your presence, and the news of who had sent you, well, we chosen to keep it secret after the battle. You’d disappeared, see, and no one had really seen you or saw what you did, besides Thorin. Fíli and Kíli only said they’d seen you ride away from Ravenhill. We, well we thought it’d be best to keep it quiet, lest anyone ask questions.” 

 

“Questions?” Imya did not understand. 

 

_Proud. And stubborn are these Dwarves. Taking issue with a Woman coming to their aid._

 

_Peace, Imya._

 

“Madness.” The Dwarf King spoke again. “My line, and I, have history of it. I feared the tale of your deeds would fuel those who doubt I overcame the Illness I suffered. We agreed that calling myself Blessed by the Maker could make me look uncertain of my rule.” 

 

Imya’s ire began to fade. “I understand, my lord King. A strange Woman rescuing you on the field of Battle, and Aüle’s Sigil on her arm. A strange and fantastic tale indeed.” 

 

“Ah yes,” said Balin. “The Sigil. I was wondering, if I might see it.” He nodded towards her arm, where her leather vambraces covered the Hammer of Aüle. 

 

Glancing at the King, Imya slowly removed the vambrace, until the Sigil shone brightly in the dim light of the study. The King’s eyes immediately shut, as the power of his Maker Thrummed into him. 

 

Balin, however, seemed unaffected, even glancing curiously at Thorin, considering the King’s reaction. 

 

“Strange,” the old Dwarf said. “I don’t seem to feel what you described, Thorin.” His eyes regarded Imya, a strange and wary look in them. 

 

“Truly?” The King asked, uncertainty clouding his voice. “I feel the Power in the Sigil, the same that pervades the Stone of Erebor. You do not feel it?” 

 

Balin shook his head, his bushy white eyebrows so furrowed the hairs nearly touched.

 

Imya decided to slowly retie the laces of her vambrace, feeling uneasy at the thought of the Sigil remaining visible for longer. 

 

“Are you one of those, then, who would call the King mad,” she asked, her voice light but her hands tense. 

 

Balin eyed her. “Never,” he said. “I am merely curious as to the workings of this magic Sigil.”

 

Imya said, “The Work of the Valar may not be for us to understand, Master Balin.” 

 

He smiled then, but it did not quite smooth the furrow between his heavy brows. “Quite right, Lady, but it never hurts to try, now does it?”

 

Imya paused. “I suppose not,” she said. Turning to the Dwarf King, she said, “My lord King, regardless of the Sigil and its effects, I would speak with you of why I have returned to the Mountain.” 

 

He nodded for her to go on. 

 

“I saved you once. I knew of the Danger that would befall you and your Sister Sons, and I followed Aüle’s call to save you. The sense of Danger has not left me since the Battle. I fear you face a threat of whose shape I am not certain. Aüle has not given me Guidance, but I trust He would not let me fall astray.”

 

The King regarded her. “You believe I am in danger? Yet no proof?”

 

Imya held his gaze. “Aüle would not have me save you only to have you fall shortly after. I believe I was wrong to leave after the Battle. My Task to protect the Line of Durin feels unfulfilled, and I fear for you and yours should I leave now.” 

 

Thorin motioned to Balin, who joined him towards the back of the study. They spoke in quiet voices, in the guttural language of the Dwarves. Finally, the King rested his hand on the old Dwarf’s shoulder, and said a final few words Imya could not understand. They returned to Imya, and Thorin said, “I thank you, Guardian, for your return. The Line of Durin is fortunate to have your protection. If you believe there is a Danger in the Mountain, let us find it. Erebor would be grateful to have you stay and unravel this mystery.”

 

Imya placed her arm, the still covered Sigil facing the King, across her chest, and nodded once, the motion bordering on a bow. “I serve Aüle, and His Will is that I guard the Line of Durin. I accept.”

 

“The proceedings will not be public, however. You will be an honored guest of the Lady Dís, the King’s sister, and mother to Fíli and Kíli. You will be a noble-woman whom Her Ladyship befriended while traveling,” Balin said. “The truth of your presence will stay between myself, the royal family, and Dwalin, the Captain of the Guard. Anymore would compromise our efforts.” 

 

“You suspect a citizen of Erebor could be the source of the Danger I sense?” Imya was surprised. She had not considered the threat might be within the Mountain, rather than sent by the Shadow in the East. 

 

“We must be prepared for any possibility, and the more that word is spread, the harder the danger will be to sniff out.” Thorin spoke with finality.

 

“Exactly,” Balin said. “Now,  how about we catch ourselves a rat?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The opening lines are a prayer by Cardinal Rafael Merry de Val y Zulueta, a Roman Catholic. The prayer asks for grace and guidance from the Lord.


End file.
